Milking the Cow
by cactusnell
Summary: A drunken Sherlock uses a rather unflattering metaphor regarding Molly. How will she react. Sherlolly


"Sherlock Holmes, have you been drinking?" Mary Watson sounded a bit surprised, and annoyed, as she clutched her baby daughter to her chest, refusing to pass her over to her swaying godfather.

"Perhaps. Maybe. A bit."

"Well, go on through to the sitting room. I'll leave John to deal with you while I put on some coffee."

"Only if you make it Irish coffee, Mary. It took me quite a while into this state, and I have no desire to leave it at the moment!" Sherlock then made his way into the sitting room, flopped down on the couch, and looked at his best friend, John Watson, forlornly.

"Sherlock, is something in particular bothering you, or have you simply decided on a new drug of choice?"

"Believe me, John, I had no choice in the matter. I have been forced into this state of inebriation by one Dr. Molly Hooper and her latest conquest, Jonathan Something-or-other."

"I'm afraid I'm not following, mate. Did they force feed you liquor? Pour beer down your throat?"

"Don't be absurd, John. Do you think that I would stand still for that. No indeed! I poured the beer down my own throat! I'm quite capable, you know."

"What's this about, Sherlock?"

"Molly is currently on her third date with Jon-Jim-Joe Whatever. And we all know what happens on the third date!"

"No we don't, mate. Why don't you enlighten me?"

"Molly never has sex before the third date. But she really seems to like this one, John. He's a teacher. He's good with kids. Little itty, bitty kids. And we all know how Molly feels about kids…"

"Sherlock, are you jealous? When did this happen? You told me you were married to your work, remember?"

"That's when I thought you were making a pass at me, you git! What good would it do to be married to your work? Your work doesn't have big brown eyes that gaze up at you. Your work doesn't have long hair that you can run your fingers through. You can't f…"

"Alright, alright, I get it. Not married to your work. At least anymore. When did you get your divorce, Sherlock?" John was trying to make light of the matter, but the morose look on his friend's face was beginning to get to him. "Sherlock, I didn't think you did things like this."

"Like what, John?"

"Feelings, mate. And sex. I kinda assumed that you had no leanings one way or the other. Kinda asexual, you know…"

Sherlock looked almost insulted, sitting up more straightly and puffing out his chest. 'I assure you, John, I am no more asexual than you are. My level of self-control is merely superior to your own…"

"Sherlock, your level of self-control is almost god-like, as far as I can tell, mate. I can't think of a single instance of your slipping into a, how shall I put this, a carnal relationship…"

The detective leaned back, smiling slightly, "There was this one incidence in Karachi…" But he quickly regained his composure. "Actually, John, 'god-like' was indeed a term used to describe my performance during my university days. I spent many an evening, and morning, and come to think of it, afternoon, exploring my, as you called them, more carnal leanings. Most of these experiments were fueled by drugs, so when I decided to give up drugs, sex became, as it were, collateral damage. I miss it, John, even more than the drugs. I am firmly convinced that sex is even more addictive, and, as you know, I have a definitely addictive personality! But I have recently come to the conclusion that, unlike drugs, I could handle sex. So I have decided to indulge…"

"Sherlock, seriously now, have you ever even had a girlfriend?"

"A girlfriend? How I hate that term! I have never been involved in any form of relationship, long-term or short-term. All my experiences have been fleeting one-night affairs, or one morning, or one afternoon, as I previously said…"

"Enough, mate, I don't need to hear any more about your sordid past…"

"Oh, so now it's sordid! Up to a few minutes ago you didn't think I had any past at all! But, I suppose I was a bit of a libertine. I remember an old expression my mother used to used. You must be familiar with it. 'Why buy the cow when you can have the milk for free?' " Sherlock slumped further down into the couch, and smirked a bit. "I'm telling you, John, I milked a lot of cows! And male cows, too. Wait. The metaphor doesn't work there, does it. You can't get milk from a male cow, right?"

"Wait a minute. Are you telling me you slept with men, too?"

"Not my personal preference. I was curious, that's all. And we weren't exactly men, yet. Just boys. Boys and their pen…"

"Nevermind, Sherlock!" John was almost at the point of covering his ears with his hands when he heard his wife softly giggling from the doorway. And noticed that she was holding her mobile phone, pointed in the direction of the world's only consulting detective. "So tell me, mate, what is this all really about?"

"I told you, John, I have decided to renew my interest in sex. More than that, actually. I have decided to buy a cow!" Sherlock looked a bit more animated now, but quickly slumped back once again. "A beautiful little cow, with big brown eyes, and a long silky tail. I would like to have a couple of calves, actually, if you get my drift, John." Sherlock attempted to wink and smirk at the same time, but succeeded only in looking slightly cockeyed.

"Sherlock, while I am finding your newly discovered interest in animal husbandry fascinating, to say the least, I still don't know why you are drunk, on my couch, and explaining your sex life to me. What is the problem?"

"Do keep up, John. Someone may be milking my cow even as we speak!"

"Ahhh!", John said slowly, as the light dawned and Mary laughed out loud from her position nearby. "This is about Molly Hooper and the new boyfriend, eh? Well, what do you intend to do about it?"

"I had intended to go over to her flat and drive that rustler off! 'Rustler'? Isn't that what they call them in those old westerns you're so fond of, John. They hang rustlers, don't they? Excellent idea, that. Might you have any rope to spare, John?"

John was now laughing along with his wife. "Hold on, mate. You don't intend to rope her like a calf, and brand her, or anything, do you?"

"Really, John, this is not the Wild West. It's not even the West End! And branding is probably illegal, isn't it?"

"Yes, Sherlock, I believe it is." Then, noticing that his friend seemed to be drifting a bit, John quickly suggested that he lie down on the couch and think about his options. The last thing that crossed Sherlock's mind before he blacked out was the image of Jon-Jim-Joe Whatshisname, in farmer's overalls carrying a milking stool and walking toward a barn.

It was a couple of hours later when a very hungover Sherlock Holmes fought his way through his aching head and his churning stomach back to consciousness. He hadn't yet had the courage to open his eyes, but he could make out voices in the room around him, and smell the coffee brewing, probably in preparation for his re-awakening. He remembered that he was in the Watson's sitting room, and could hear John's voice above the others. Then Mary's laugh cut through the muted conversation, and finally the soft giggle of his pathologist, Molly Hooper, just before she spoke. "Thank you so much for sending me that video, Mary. I've never seen anything so funny!"

"Bloody hell, Molly," John said, "You should have been here! I heard things I'm never going to be able to unhear!"

"I'm glad you found my sorry state so amusing, John. I am always happy to provide entertainment for my friends." Sherlock tried to rise, but fell backwards as soon as he lifted his head from the pillow. He then turned to look cautiously at Molly, who smiled gently at him before saying, in a silkily seductive voice, "Moo!"

A moment later, Mary appeared at his side, offering a couple of paracetamol and a large glass of water. "Take these, and then I'll get you some coffee, Sherlock." The detective struggled to an upright position, and took the proffered items, draining the entire glass.

Molly came to sit next to him, bearing a mug of steaming coffee. "Here, Sherlock, maybe this will help."

"Nothing will help, Molly. Death would be a blessing."

Molly laughed at him, and leaned in to rest her head on his shoulder. "Thinking of buying a cow, are you? Do you intend on making me an offer?"

"Are you sure you want me to after hearing all about my sordid past, Dr. Hooper?"

"Of course, Sherlock. I just wish I had gone to your University, too. It seems like a lot more fun than mine!"

"Molly, my head hurts, my stomach hurts, and I think I may die any minute. Could you please take me home? I think I'd like to die in my own bed, preferably with you next to me." Sherlock put on his most pathetic face, and wrapped his arm around her shoulder, leaning against her. Molly leaned in close and brushed her lips against his cheek. "Your aim is atrocious, Molly Hooper!", the detective said with a wan smile.

"That's as close as I'm getting until after you engage in some rather strenuous acts of oral hygiene, Sherlock. And don't think we're not going to discuss your rather insulting use of the cow metaphor!"

"Didn't you care for my description of your big brown eyes and long silky tail? I thought it was rather complimentary, Molly."

"Yes, well, be that as it may, it's going to be quite a while before you're well enough to do any milking, Farmer Holmes. Let's go home!" And with that, Molly pulled him to his feet, and guided him toward the door.

Sherlock smiled at her use of the singular term 'home', and followed her happily out the door.


End file.
